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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24922861">Tiny Dancer</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aryas_aria/pseuds/Aryas_aria'>Aryas_aria</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Song Series [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Song of Ice and Fire, game of thrones</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, R Plus L Equals J, a little smut</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 05:21:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,929</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24922861</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aryas_aria/pseuds/Aryas_aria</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU where Arya is a ballerina</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jon Snow/Arya Stark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Song Series [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1803616</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>76</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Tiny Dancer</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Ever since she was four, Arya Stark has been a force of nature. Even at so young an age, she’d been a trial to her mother, always so willful and full of energy. It had been a surprise then when her mother had announced to the whole family that she would be taking Arya and Sansa to the ballet in a few days to see the Northern Theatre’s production of <em>The Nutcracker</em> as a Christmas treat. Father had raised a quizzical brow but wisely remained silent for once and Robb had just laughed, two-year-old Bran followed his big brother’s lead and giggled as well. Aunt Lyanna demanded she be taken along to which mother had smiled and produced a fourth ticket. Arya, however, pouted and begged off with mantras of “please mother, no” and “I promise I won’t rip another dress, please don’t punish me.” Jon and Uncle Rhaegar insisted she would love it, and after such a strong endorsement from her favorite person ever and her most cultured uncle who sang the best songs, Cat Stark got her wish. Off to the ballet they went.</p>
<p>It had been the single most defining moment of her young life, better even than petting the horses Harwin trained in the stables, or even playing hide and seek with her siblings, or swimming in the Godswood pools with Jon. The girl who played Clara had been beautiful and graceful, the music was fun and exciting to her, and even the story held her interest so long that she didn’t even mind wearing one of the insufferable frilly dresses mother put her in. To say she was changed would be an understatement, and soon all in the Stark mansion knew it.</p>
<p>Her father had almost had a heart attack a few days after when he’d seen her throwing herself haphazardly about her room trying to do a fouette like she’d seen the leading lady perform. It had been a rare occasion then, when he got to tease her mother for finally being the one to introduce Arya to one of her “dangerous hobbies,” as Lady Stark had called anything even remotely interesting that Arya sought to occupy her precious time with.</p>
<p>Still, for two years, she broke toes and spun herself into oblivion, watching every scrap of ballet footage she could get her hands on, and always begged her mother to take her to the newest production in town. And when Jon had come down with his family for summer vacation and Christmas, he’d graciously spend the whole month being her ballerino, lifting her and gliding through the grey stone halls of Winterfell, uncle Rhaegar playing the most divine music on his harp for them. It had been much the same when the family packed up and went to Kings Landing for Thanksgiving, her ballet slippers always packed and ready to glide through the blood red corridors with her beau.</p>
<p>Her interest in ballet had made her more manageable by far in her mother’s eyes, and even allowed her freedom to leave behind the tiring ordeal of embroidery lessons with Mistress Mordane that mother had forced on her and Sansa. “You’ve got your own sort of womanly arts,” she remembers her mother saying, a gentle hand on Arya’s shoulder as she begged to be excused from the lessons for the rest of her life, “you and Sansa are not the same. I see that now my love.” And if she kept her dresses clean and didn’t talk back too much, mother even allowed her to start skeet shooting and hunting with father and the boys when she could spare the time.</p>
<p>So by the time the Bravosi Ballet Company had first come North at Christmas time years ago, the now six-year-old ballerina at heart had begged for the family to go. She’d promised her mother that she’d wear the frilliest dress, that she’d even keep her hair neat and not fight with Sansa ever again in her life so long as they could attend just one showing. “Please mother,” she’d said in a whine, “they’re the best ballet company in the world! They’re so good, the rest of the world doesn’t even call them ballerinas, they’re <em>water dancers</em>! They dance on a pool of water and don’t even make a splash! Oh please, please, <em>please</em> mother!” Cat hadn’t relented however, so she’d been forced to turn to father. But even her bouquet of flowers and beaming smile had not persuaded Ned Stark to give in to his favorite child’s request. Since then, she’d been in a terrible sulk when the rest of the family arrived at Winterfell, and even Aunt Lyanna and her mischief nor Uncle Rhaegar singing to her or Jon’s dazzling presence could lift the cloud of despair on her young heart.</p>
<p>December 25<sup>th</sup> finally came, and mother had gifted her a beautiful music box made of glass, a delicate little dancer jumping out of it to spin around to a wistful tune and it had seemed so cruel to her. So when everyone had put on an annoying smile just after finishing the pudding pies and lemon cakes at Christmas dinner, she’d been murderous. Santa Claus had not even been able to grant her Christmas wish, it would seem, so what on earth could there be to celebrate when the best ballet company in the world would be leaving the Seven Kingdoms tomorrow and she still hadn’t seen their production of <em>Swan Lake</em>?</p>
<p>Intent on leaving the family to their own traitorous devices and slipping out of the vomit green number her mother had forced her into, she was understandably upset at being sidetracked, even by Jon.<br/>
<br/>
“Little cousin, you can’t possibly be leaving? I already only get to see you a few times a year and you’ve been cross with me the whole time I’ve been here,” he was much stronger than her at eleven, picking her up swiftly and settling her on his back.<br/>
<br/>
“I could never be cross at you stupid,” she said, rather crossly even to her own ears, to which Jon only laughed. “Fine,” she sighed exasperatedly,” I’m just so disappointed that I didn’t get to see the water dancers! You know how much I love the ballet Jon, how I want to be a prima one day! And if I ever even want to see a Bravosi ballet, I’ll have to go all the way to Bravos!”</p>
<p><br/>
“Well you certainly are small enough to be a ballerina, you skinny little thing,” he chuckled good naturedly, still laughing even when she sank her elbow into the soft flesh of his stomach. “Come on,” he said leading her through the great hall to the gardens, “Uncle Ned says the whole family needs to be here, my little prima.”<br/>
<br/>
“For what,” Arya asked more annoyed than anything as she hopped off his back and threaded their arms together.<br/>
<br/>
He chose not to answer, instead leading her to the room where chairs had been set up to one side and everyone in Winterfell, even the servants, were already sitting across from a make shift stage filled to the brim with liquid. Aunt Lysa, Uncle Jon, cousin Robert, Grandfather Hoster, Uncle Edmure and Blackfish, even Uncle Benjen and uncle Rhaegar and Aunt Lyanna were seated. Sansa and Robb were next to mother with Bran in her lap, who was in turn next to father, two empty seats dead center on his left.</p>
<p>“What’s all this father?” She asked, curiosity taking over her annoyance.<br/>
<br/>
“A gift my little wolf, for you,” he took her hand and lead it to the seat in the center where she sat curiously, bringing Jon along swiftly to sit by her side. Still looking to her father, she watched as he gave a slight nod to the opposite side of the room. Soon, the lights all went out and Arya got the distinct impression that several pairs of eyes were on her, but she was too curious to even look or ask anyone why on earth they were staring at her.</p>
<p>“A lovely night tonight,” a short man with a funny accent said, walking swiftly as his black curls bounced ever so softly in the Northern breeze. Behind him, a full orchestra began filtering in to the left and right of the stage, but Arya had dared not hope, not even then. “Just the sort of night for a tale of magic, tragedy, and romance. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, the Bravos Ballet Company in Pyotr Tchaikovsky’s <em>Swan Lake</em>.”</p>
<p>Her little heart had almost burst as she let out a shout of delight. “Oh thank you thank you thank you, father,” she’d exclaimed, rising swiftly to throw herself upon her father’s lap and hug him so fiercely.</p>
<p>“Anything for my little ballerina,” he’d said, kissing her hair sweetly before she could clamber back into her seat. All through the performance, she’d been marveled and moved, wanting nothing more than to hug the white swan and run off the black. Prince Siegfried was stupid in her opinion, and not worthy of Odette if he could not tell the real from the fake, and Rothbart and Odile, oh how she wished she could set the dogs on them both. Oh, but when Odette descended into the lake, how the swell of her heart matched the crescendo of the music, so powerful and all consuming. She would be Odette one day, she had vowed.</p>
<p>Little Arya had been vibrating energy when the lights finally came back on, intent on meeting sweet Odette and telling Odile just how evil she was. And when the dancers had reconvened in the garden with the rest of the family, the narrator introduced himself as Syrio Forel, one of the trainers of the dancers. She’d been intent on hating Rothbart, but even he had been a sweet man, more like Uncle Edmure than bad. Nothing, however could change her six-year-old opinion on Odile, and so she waited with bated breath to meet her and Odette both.</p>
<p>Odette had emerged finally, and Arya had been transfixed. She was without a doubt the single loveliest woman Arya had ever met. She could not have been more than twenty at the time, with black hair and light brown skin, smooth as sin. Arya had though that she was so lovely that the lights in the hall burned brighter as she passed. “Ah, Belle,” Syrio had said in his accent, “may I introduce Lord Stark and his daughter, the little lady Arya. She wants to be a prima allecta one day, I’m told. Lady Arya, this is –“</p>
<p>“The Black Pearl,” she’d gasped, eyes shining in admiration as she finally realized that <em>this</em> was the woman hanging from a poster on her wall. “Bellegere Otherys, the most famous water dancer in the world!”</p>
<p>“Well,” Bellegere had laughed lightly in a voice that chimed like bells in the breeze, “I see you know your ballerinas, lady Arya.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I just love you,” she’d gushed. “I have your poster on my wall, and I’ve seen every ballet you’ve been in. Well, not actually <em>seen</em>, but I watch the video clips they put on YouTube and you’re divine!” Bellegere had laughed again and said her thanks, but Arya could not stop talking. “You were the perfect Odette, just perfect. Oh, but Odile, I hate her! She took your prince away and then you had to die. Where is she? Where’s the girl who played Odile?”</p>
<p>“Actually, my sweet,” Bellegere had interjected, eyes shining with mirth, “I was both Odette and Odile. The good and the bad, we all have both inside us, no?” Arya had finally been silenced by such a revelation, and in the span of five seconds she knew without a doubt that Bellegere Otherys was really and truly the only ballerina in the world worth watching. That last part she must have said out loud though, for a round of laughter brought her back to the present. “Ah, a girl who knows her stuff, “Bellegere answered, “Syrio, I am less sad to know that I am losing you to such a one as lady Arya. You will be a water dancer in no time, yes? And when you are the Swan Queen, call me, I will come little one.” She’d bent down then and unclasped her net of spun gold from her hair, gifting it to Arya.</p>
<p>“Lose him?” She’d said, more dumbfounded than anything. Not even able to process that <em>the</em> black pearl had just gifted her a hair net of gold.</p>
<p>“Syrio has agreed to stay in Winterfell and train you,” her father replied, a rare smile on his usually somber face. “We’re redoing a room in the east wing for you as a studio.”</p>
<p>No Christmas since had ever been able to replace the magic of that one for Arya. And as the years went on, she learned everything Syrio could teach her. She’d been so happy that nothing could stop the smile on her face when she was learning the water dance. Of course, there had been times when father threatened to send him back to Bravos, especially after the silk tie incident, and when she’d fallen down the stairs from trying to balance on her pinky toe. But no one could be better than Syrio, so she’d begged for him to stay and he did.</p>
<p>But when she’d been sixteen, Syrio had insisted that he’d taught her all he could during their ten years together. It was time, he’d said, to apply for a professional school. And because she was a Stark, only the best would do. She applied only for the House of Black and White at Syrio’s urging, and he hadn’t been surprised when she’d been admitted at once. There had been little objection to her moving to Bravos for four years, and she was a bit disappointed at that, though the House of Black and White was everything she’d secretly hoped for. Did her family not love her enough to ask her to stay even once?</p>
<p>As always, it was Jon to explain the way of things to her. He’d come in June, on his family’s summer visit, never missing it even though he was twenty-one now and in university at The Citadel with Robb. Jon, ever the guiding light in Arya’s eyes, laughed at her instantly. “Of course they’ll miss you! But Arya, ever since you were six and Syrio came to teach you, we all knew you’d go there one day. We’ve had years to adjust to the idea.”</p>
<p>“You knew I’d get in? How? I didn’t even know; I was so worried!”</p>
<p>“Arya,” Jon had sighed, a smile on his lips, “can you still not see yourself little prima? You’re perfect, everything about you is—nevermind.” He’d looked sad then and she hadn’t known why. She’d still see Jon the same as always when she came home for summer break and the winter holiday, though she wouldn’t get to visit him in Kings Landing for Thanksgiving like the rest of the family or on his weekend trips home with Robb when they weren’t busy getting drunk. “Promise you’ll write to me, little one? And that you won’t forget about me when you’re sailing down the canals of Bravos?”</p>
<p>“I could never forget you,” she’d said then, earnestly. “You’re my Jon and I’m your Arya. That will never change, not even when I’m a ballerina for true or you’re as old as your uncle Aemon.” He’d given her one of his special smiles then and she’d reigned kisses down on him to seal the promise.</p>
<p>“I’ve a gift for you,” he’d said in a shy way.</p>
<p>“What is it?!” She’d demanded, always so bossy.</p>
<p>“I learned how to play your song on the piano,” he’d rubbed the back of his neck, unsure of whether to proceed.</p>
<p>“Oh,” she’d gasped delighted, “oh, I want to hear, now! Will you sing it for me too, Jon? Please?” And he hadn’t denied her as she dragged him by the arm to sit at the grand piano in Winterfell’s music room.</p>
<p>Jon had taken a calming breath, his long fingers striking the chords beautifully as the opening notes to “Tiny Dancer” became clear to her ears. And he even blessed her with his voice as well, pouring so much passion into the song that she’d shed a tear by the time it was done. She’d demanded he play it for her again and recorded it so that she could always listen to it.</p>
<p>It has been four years since then, and Arya is triumphantly returning to Westeros as a full-fledged water dancer. One day, she will open a school of her own, perhaps not as grand as the House of Black and White, but something for the girls and boys in the North with the same frosty passion as her. But for now, she will find work in one of Westeros’ premiere ballet companies, perhaps at Lannisport or King’s Landing.</p>
<p>But first, she will enjoy her time at home with family.</p>
<p>She’s dressed in an ivory gown of pale silver, her hair in an elegant twist that Sansa insisted on doing because Arya herself has only perfected being able to do her hair in a tight bun or letting it run completely wild and free down her back. She’s happy to be back home, though she knows she sticks out like a sore thumb even more now with her tan. The party her parents have thrown in honor of her completing the House of Black and White is a lavish affair, gleaming candles and vibrant flowers bursting from the gardens as guests from all over drink fizzy champagne out of crystal flutes and dine on blueberry tarts and Northern cheese.</p>
<p>It isn’t that she doesn’t love the excitement, truly, it’s just that she was hoping for something more intimate, quiet even, perhaps just a night with family first. And she doesn’t want to complain, not when everyone is so proud of her for once, but she hasn’t even seen Jon yet. It’s been two months since he visited her in Bravos for her twentieth birthday, exploring the Happy Port and eating the best oysters that side of the Narrow Sea had to offer. The visit had been a success to her, a week of Jon all to herself to do whatever they wished. He’d even gifted her the most stunning ring of blue sapphire in a liquid silver band. The Heart of Winter, he’d called it, a gift his father had commissioned for his mother on their engagement. She’d jumped into his arms then and showered him with kisses like she used to do, but Jon had seemed changed the next day after her classes, angrier and less her Jon. Still, she didn’t think that was enough of a reason for him to be as distant as he’d become. He had not written after his departure, nor had he attended her graduation ceremony, and everyone in the family had come, even his old uncle Aemon made the trip. He’d sent over six dozen long stemmed winter roses and a weak apology to make up for it. And she’d almost thought he wouldn’t show up tonight but for Aunt Lyanna and Uncle Rhaegar assuring her that, yes, he’d boarded the plane with them and was indeed brooding around Winterfell somewhere.</p>
<p>“Lady Arya,” a familiar voice calls to her, pulling her from her thoughts, “congratulations.”</p>
<p>“Jaqen,” she smiles, letting him kiss her hand, “a pleasure to see you, though I am a little surprised you decided to cross the Narrow Sea.”</p>
<p>“I’ve decided to open a ballet company of my own here,” he says by way of explanation. “I would be most pleased if a lovely girl would consider joining, you were, after all, the most talented pupil I had at the House of Black and White as an instructor.”</p>
<p>“Oh, Jaqen, you flatter me,” she says to avoid giving an answer just yet. The man was talented to be sure, almost unparalleled in his form, but his methods were quite scandalous, and she recalls the way he used to “instruct” her during her last semester of training. Still, no one could deny his results. “I’d be honored to audition. What did you have in mind for your first piece?”</p>
<p>“Swan Lake,” he says, a playful smile gracing his lips because he knows that he has her now. Swan Lake is the quintessential ballet in Arya’s opinion, both dark and light, daring and timid, good and evil, but also grey just like her. A compromised love, dying rather than betraying the true self, it was everything to her ever since she was six. It was no secret at the academy that she hoped to play the Swan Queen one day, just as everyone knew that her treasured hair net of gold she wore before every important performance had been a gift to her by the former Black Pearl, Bellegere Otherys. “I have quite a few investors already and I’m sure a good opening performance will only lead the way to more.”</p>
<p>He hardly needs one investor, they both know. The name “Jaqen Hagar” in the artistic world is sure to bring so much of a splash that his theater will be booked long before it opens its doors. “A girl would be most delighted to meet with you, at your convenience of course.” She puts on a flattering smile as he bows and walks away, both utterly pleased with themselves.</p>
<p>Her happiness doesn’t last long, however, for she soon sees Jon high up on a balcony in what she knows is the music room. He’s looking directly at her in his black tux and bow tie, and he’s utterly furious. The dark expression on his face confuses her for a half a moment before she overcomes her shock, putting on a scowl of her own. He does not get to be the only one upset, not when he’s missed her graduation and avoided her for so long. With renewed purpose, she stalks the halls until she finally reaches the music room, intent on getting to the bottom of whatever it is making Jon so angry and distant.</p>
<p>But before she can open her mouth, she’s struck silent by the sight in front of her. Jon has removed his jacket and undone his bow tie so that the stings hand around his neck. His shirt is ruffled and unbuttoned at the top, his hair a dark brown mass of tangles from what she knows is a result of him running his fingers through it furiously. And by the gods, he’s striking the piano so hard she thinks it might actually break.</p>
<p>It’s a few moments later that just <em>what</em> it is he is playing finally dawns on her. Tiny Dancer, her song, the one he learned for her, the one he sang so sweetly for her before she left, the one she used to listen to every night before going to sleep, the phone lying next to her on the pillow as Jon’s beautiful voice soothed her into oblivion. Angrily, she cries, unable to help it as salty tears spill down her face. Oh, how angry must he be to treat her so cruelly. “Jon,” she says lowly, after he’s struck the final chord. He still refuses to look at her, even as his chest beats wildly and his breathing is still labored. She gives a tired sigh, walking over to the piano and sitting with her back to the keys. “Jon,” she says again, resting her hand over one of his still sitting on the piano keys.</p>
<p>His eyes take the long path to her face, drinking in her delicate hand resting on his own all the way up until their grey eyes lock on one another. She almost wants to cry when they do, for the hurt and anger there threaten to pull her in and drown her. “I just got you back,” he whispers, voice raspy and raw, “don’t leave me again.”</p>
<p>“What on earth are you talking about silly boy?” She teases, her own voice raw but desperately trying to be airy.</p>
<p>“I saw you talking to Jaqen, I know he’s asked you to be a part of his new company.”</p>
<p>“How did you—“</p>
<p>“He asked father to invest. I’m sure half the noble houses will endorse him soon enough. Especially if <em>you</em> join him.”</p>
<p>“Jon,” she sighs, still confused, “this is my dream, why would I not go to work for him?”</p>
<p>“He desires you Arya,” Jon answers straight away, angry again, “don’t try to deny it! I saw him kiss you back in Bravos,” he whispers quietly.</p>
<p>“I can handle myself,” she says just as quietly. Finally, she can understand just what it was that made Jon change so drastically, but it still doesn’t explain <em>why</em> he’s so angry about it! Arya’s 20, grown by all accounts, and even though Jaqen was her professor at the time, it’s hardly something for Jon to get this bent out of shape about.</p>
<p>“He’ll offer to make you a star so long as you give him what he wants. I can’t watch you fall into his arms, I just can’t.”</p>
<p>“I won’t be falling into anyone’s arms I assure you,” she snorts, “I have too much work to do.”</p>
<p>“He’ll tempt you,” Jon shakes his head negatively. And suddenly she’s angry.</p>
<p>“You’ve got some nerve all but insinuating I’m some easy little girl and not a grown woman. You act as if the only way I’ll even get the part is because Jaqen wants to sleep with me. News flash Jon, I leaned from Master Forel, I graduated from the House of Black and White, you’d know if you had been there,” she responds bitterly.</p>
<p>“Ah yes, how selfish of me to not want to see your instructor salivating over you even then! Well excuse me but I had enough of that when I was in Bravos.”</p>
<p>“What’s wrong with you?” She asks angrily, rising from the piano in a temper. “What’s gotten into you Jon? Why are you acting so cruel?”</p>
<p>He studies her for half a heartbeat before his face falls. “Nothing,” he says sadly, “nothing at all.”</p>
<p>“Jon, please, just tell me,” she pleads, watching as her rises from the bench to stand across from her. “Can’t you just tell your Arya what’s wrong?” She asks sadly.</p>
<p>His face twists up in grief as she says her plea, and she watches as his eyes turn from sad to angry. “You’re not my Arya anymore, you’re Jaqen’s, I can see it even now.”</p>
<p>She feels the burn of his words and they set her heart on fire as she bites her bottom lip hard to keep from sobbing. As if stricken, she flees the room, intent on leaving Jon Targaryen in the past.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>She unwraps a new set of pointe shoes, bending, beating, cutting, stripping, and sewing them until they will mold to her feet just so. Excitedly, she begins the warmups with the other dancers, an elderly woman she doesn’t recognize presiding over the whole affair. She is pleased to gain an approving nod from the woman, intent on putting her best foot quite literally forward in today’s audition. The other dancers are good too after all, and she can recognize a few: Jeyne Poole, a friend of Sansa’s from the Northern Performance Arts local school, and Daena, a fellow student from across the Narrow Sea, and she thought she glanced Brea and Taela too.</p>
<p>She feels Jaqen watching silently from above, as is his way, a single clap from him disrupting the warmups and gaining him the attention of everyone on the room as he descends on silent footsteps to be level with his followers.</p>
<p>“We all know the story,” he begins, voice a soothing timbre over the too light music playing, “a virginal girl, trapped in the body of a swan, finds true love in the form of a handsome prince. But before she can be freed, a sorcerer and his evil daughter, the black swan tricks the prince. Devastated, the white swan leaps off a cliff, killing herself, and in death finds freedom. Good morning company,” he finishes, standing tall at the head of the stage.</p>
<p>“Good Morning,” they all say.</p>
<p>“Swan Lake,” he continues, “done to death I know,” he gives a rueful smile. “But not like this. We strip it down, make it real. A new company, a new production needs a new Swan Queen. But which of you can embody both swans, hm? The white and the black. If you think this is you, meet me in the principle studio in half an hour.”</p>
<p>She bites her lip as he exits the stage, to get ahead of her nerves. Everything Master Forel had taught her comes rushing to the surface until it is her turn to audition for Jaqen. <em>Swift as a deer. Quiet as shadow. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Quick as a snake. Calm as still water. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Strong as a bear. Fierce as a wolverine. Fear cuts deeper than swords. </em>She walks to the stage, more serene than anything and poised to perfection.</p>
<p>Elegantly, effortlessly, she glides through the movements of the white swan’s part, fluttering across the stage as if it is one of the ones in the House of Black and White, filled to the brim with water, begging her to glide upon it as if she were a swan for true. She loses herself in the tempo of the dance, the keys the player plucks on the piano until she feels and hears the final chord come with clarity. She bows her head as he approaches her in reverence. “If I was only casting the white swan, it should be yours,” Jaqen says, a resigned air about him. “But I’m not. Maestro, the next part please. Now show me your black swan, Arya.”</p>
<p>She gives a little nod, resetting her position on stage as she prepares herself to become Odile. The music starts, a darker tone, so familiar to her after all these years. She turns and spins and turns again, up and down, up and down to the rhythm of the music, all the while, Jaqen shouting instruction at her like when she was his student. But this time, it is not simply a grade up for grabs, but her career as a ballerina, her dream. “Not so controlled,” he says first, “seduce us, come on! Attack it,” he says. She can see his face as she spins, each time angrier than the last as he demands of her, “attack it, attack it, attack it!” She won’t cry, not when everyone is looking at her so expectantly. And can she blame them? Ten years with Master Forel, four at the house of Black and White, a semester of which was under Jaqen himself! If she cannot land this part with such advantages, then she’d better run back to mommy and daddy and their immense family fortunes and leave the ballet to the professionals. She cannot bear to see Jeyne Poole audition next, so she leaves straight away, calling the one person who she can tolerate at such a time.</p>
<p>“Bran,” her voice wobbles a little, “will you come pick me up? I’ll be at the Inn at the Crossroads, ok? We can have lunch.”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Their regular server, Hot Pie, takes them to a room in the back, one the Inn’s more high-end customers often utilize.</p>
<p>“Right then,” Hot Pie says cheerily in his usual way, “two bowls of crab stew, a loaf of my famous bread and butter, and a round of whatever’s on tap, yeah?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, sounds good,” Bran nods, “thanks Hot Pie.” They give him a minute to bring out the bread, Bran tearing a liberal chunk of it off greedily before slathering a good amount of butter on it. “So, how did it go?” He looks to her with clear blue eyes, already knowing that she must be upset, but in his usual way, not wanting to overstep. It’s exactly this reason why she’s called Bran and no one else, that and the fact that she isn’t speaking to Jon right now.</p>
<p>“I—It was okay,” she says quietly, demurely. She takes a sip of the ale Hot Pie brings and tries not to let tears spill while she’s in public. She wishes she could hug Bran just now and let it all out.</p>
<p>“Just ok?”</p>
<p>“I—I miss Jon,” she answers instead. And though it’s true, she isn’t sure why she said that just now.</p>
<p>“Well,” her younger brother gives her a pointed smile, “I know for a fact that he misses you too.”</p>
<p>“How?” She asks, far too sharply. Thankfully, it’s that moment that Hot Pie comes back with the stew and she can hide her blush by dipping a spoon into the steaming bowl.</p>
<p>“Aunt Lya was complaining to mom yesterday about it. They were in the kitchen helping Cook with dinner and Aunt Lya just kept going on and on about how hopeless you both were and that she’s sick of it all.”</p>
<p>“What did mom say?” She asks nervously. For some reason, the thought of Jon and her mother always turned her stomach sour.</p>
<p>“Uh well she agreed, yeah,” Bran says casually, taking several bites of his own stew before continuing. “It’s a bit boring at this point you know?” He gives her a loaded look, but for the life of her, she cannot fathom what it’s supposed to mean.</p>
<p>“I didn’t know he’d told anyone about our fight,” she says quietly, unsure of exactly what is so boring to the family about her and Jon.</p>
<p>“Didn’t have to,” he says, washing down his already finished food with the last dregs of his ale, “it’s obvious you know.”</p>
<p>“He said some hurtful things,” she hedges, swallowing another spoonful of stew as Bran looks at her expectantly. “And I just don’t understand—“</p>
<p>“Seven hells, Arya!” Bran exclaims, laughing loudly. “Why don’t you two just talk it out, yeah? And as for that audition, I’m sure everything’s going to work out.” He gives her a smile so charming, all dimples and curly red hair that she smiles back. And because Bran has always seemed to have a strong sense of intuition, she resolves not to fret so much about the part of the Swan Queen. He does, after all, turn out to be right about Jon, because when she calls him, he apologies and asks her to come to the Grand Harrenhal Hotel for dinner in a few nights. It’ll be at least an hour drive, more than a few towns over, but if she can finally resolve things with Jon, it will be worth the exhaustion the next day.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>She’s decided that she will be the Swan Queen, so she might as well start preparing now, no matter that the roles have not been announced yet. And it’s when she’s practicing her pirouettes in her dance studio at Winterfell that the idea comes to her. She will give Jaqen a taste of his own medicine.</p>
<p>She rises early the next morning, taking extra care of her appearance as she draws a bath, splashing a bit of her milk bath from Lys in the water and scatters a few rose petals for good measure. She spends a good amount of time on her outfit as well, choosing a white silken top and dark jean to enhance her figure, letting her raven colored hair cascade down her back and painting her lips a shade of red Margaery Tyrell had gifted her once. To top it all off, she rubs a scented oil that smells of honey and lavender into her neck and wrists, trying to forget that it too, was a gift from Jon.</p>
<p>“Do you have a minute,” she finds herself saying when finally reaching the studio, almost cornering Jaqen as he makes the familiar trek to the room that will be his office.</p>
<p>He gives her a once over, but what exactly he is thinking is always hard to tell. “Yes, come,” he motions her in, closing the door.</p>
<p>She feels her resolve weaken a bit at the sound of the door closing. The kiss he stole from her in Bravos was sweet from what she can recall, but not really to her liking. His lips had been too harsh, his eyes too light, and his hands too rough—not at all like the hands that had lifted her up for a lifetime, or the grey eyes that matched her own, or the soft and lush lips that sang for her and only for her. “I can come back later if—“</p>
<p>“No, now is fine,” Jaqen cuts.</p>
<p>“Well, I just wanted to tell you that I um, I practiced last night and I just – I thought you should know.”</p>
<p>“Ok, Arya listen, honestly. I don’t care about your technique; you should know that by now. Anyway, I already chose Jeyne.”</p>
<p>Incensed, she walks to the door on hurried steps. To be so humiliated, and by the likes of Jeyne Poole! Before she can make it out however, Jaqen has slammed the door, “that’s it? You won’t try and change my mind? A girl must have thought it was possible, elsewise why would you be here smelling of honey and looking like a vision?” He raises his eyebrows to her challengingly and what <em>had</em> she been thinking? It’s not that she’s saving herself for marriage per se, but the first time should be special—kiss, sex, love—and Jaqen isn’t the man on her mind when she sleeps at night. Jaqen Hagar had taken her first kiss though, so she might as well use her second one to get what she wants.</p>
<p>“I came to ask for the part,” she hedges, still teetering on the edge of propriety. More than anything, it stings that Jon was right all along about Jaqen, that she is even considering gifting this man her lips for a part.</p>
<p>“Well,” he sighs, amused but growing tired, “I only see the white swan when I look at you. Beautiful, pure, noble. You have a good heart, you give money to strangers and play with children in the street. You’re a Stark through and through, honorable to fault. But the black swan? That’s a hard fucking job to dance.”</p>
<p>“I can dance the black swan too,” she answers, indignant. Like the rest of the world, Jaqen has mistaken her Stark honor for a lack of a backbone. Just because he family likes being good, uses their means to help others, doesn’t mean they don’t have a darker side too! She remembers walking through the crypts with her siblings and Maester Luwin once, him telling them every good and bad thing each Stark buried there had done. It had been a comfort to her then, to hear of the wolf blood flowing so freely in their veins as it had always flown in her own. Light and dark, she has them both inside of her, she does.</p>
<p>“Every time you dance, I see you obsess getting each and every move right, but I never see you lose yourself.”</p>
<p><em>You don’t want to see me lose myself</em>, she thinks darkly. That path will lead to ruin, to feelings and yearnings best left buried for all of time lest she make a fool of herself. “I just want to be perfect,” she deflects.</p>
<p>“Perfection can also be about letting go,” he says, circling her like a cat does a mouse, “surprising yourself to surprise the audience, transcendence.” Before she can even think of a weak reply, his lips are on her. They take her back to that day in Bravos. She had still been bubbling with joy from the night before, Jon’s electric presence and sweet gift putting her on cloud nine that she did not even register Jaqen coming up behind her. He had held her waist firmly, calloused hands pressing her closer and closer to his body as she maintained a perfect balance for her stretch. But before she knew what had happened, he’d deftly taken one hand to move her chin around, planting his lips on her firmly and taking liberties with her mouth. She almost gets lost in this kiss like she did the one before, but it’s Jon’s hauntingly hurt face to bring her back to her senses once more, biting down hard on Jaqen’s lip until he is forced to release her from her memory and the present both.</p>
<p>“Ah,” he exclaims, “you bit me! I can’t believe you—you bit me!” He gives a disbelieving huff as she runs from the studio.</p>
<p>The next day, as she packs her bags and prepares to retreat into the sanctuary of her Audi, intent on sinking into a hot bath as soon as she gets back to Winterfell, the results get posted. She watches helplessly as Jeyne Poole runs with the others to check the list. And because she cannot bear to be seen as weak, she checks it too, shocked more than anyone when she sees the name Arya Stark printed next to the Swan Queen.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>It is weeks later, when Edric Dayne has lifted and spun her around the dance studio so many times she has lost count. Ned is a fantastic Siegfried, it must be said. And he, like Arya, comes from a noble family background, their kinship shining through when they dance together.</p>
<p>But for all her poise and practice, she still does not seem to meet Jaqen’s expectations of the black swan. Not once has her bun come undone or her arms faltered or her eyes closed in ecstasy, she does not lose herself as he wishes.</p>
<p>“Alright, everyone, that’s enough for today,” he says to the other dancers. She knows he doesn’t mean her by the way his mouth is turned down into a frown and his face actually shows displeasure.</p>
<p>“Good luck,” Ned whispers to her, setting her down gently as he runs of with the other dancers, all eagerly fawning over his blonde curls and purples eyes.</p>
<p>“Arya,” he sighs when it is just him and her, even the piano player having been dismissed. “What am I going to do with you, hm? You refuse to cast yourself over to the dark side, you are no more Odile than I am Rothbart.”</p>
<p>He is Rothbart though, to her at least. Stealing kisses meant for another, pushing down and down as if he wants her to reside in hell for the sins she would commit if given half the chance.</p>
<p>“I stole a kiss from you in Bravos, a true black swan would have stolen a kiss from me. But perhaps a man is not what you desire, perhaps a woman will do?” She gapes at him, her mouth opening comically so as she feels her eyes sting and her cheeks redden. If only it were that simple, if only the one person for her would love her back for true. In the face of her silence, Jaqen loses patience. “Whatever it is you like--man, woman, both--free yourself with it, give in to it.” He comes to her on silent steps, reaching out a finger to touch her bottom lip, freeing it from her teeth. “I want you to touch yourself, touch another—get lost in the blackest part of your soul. Don’t come back to me until you have. Jeyne Poole will dance your part until then, I’ve decided she will be your back up.”</p>
<p>He walks out of the studio so casually after that, as if he has not just crushed her whole world with such words, carelessly uttered. She sits in the darkened studio for what feels like hours, crying her heart out until her alarm brings her back to the present. Bold letters and a too bright light remind her that she needs to meet Jon at 7, giving her only two hours to go home, dress, and make it to all the way to the Harrenhal Hotel.</p>
<p>“Shit,” she mutters softly, not sure if she should be around Jon in such a state but knowing she will go anyway. No matter what has happened between them, she misses him far too much to stay away.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>She enters his hotel suite to a gentle piano playing, recognizing the song once more. She wouldn’t be surprised if he expressly asked the staff to tote that piano all the way up here just so he could play it for her now, Jon’s always been a Targaryen in that way. She thinks that he must be trying to wear her down with it, but she desperately doesn’t want to fight tonight, not after what happened with Jaqen today.</p>
<p>“Jon,” she calls softly, slipping her cashmere coat off and placing it on the rack. Her skin prickles in the air-conditioned breeze and she idly wonders if she dressed up too much for a simple dinner. It’d be nothing special to Sansa, a slinky black number, spaghetti straps so thin they might as well not even be there, the fabric molded to her form. She’d be lying if she said she hadn’t been thinking of Jaqen’s words when she got ready. She’d used the same soap from the time before when she’d tried to seduce her Master, and the same scented oil as well. On a whim, she’d slipped the ring Jon gifted her on her finger on her way out the door, the only piece of jewelry she’d decided to wear. And she had been pleased as she caught her reflection dashing out the door—a temptress in black, bright eyes and a pointed smile lurking beneath her red lips, wolfish in every sense of the word, a huntress stalking her prey.</p>
<p>“Come here,” he throws her a smile, never once missing a note as he continues playing the piano. She obeys quietly, slipping into the bench and leaning onto his shoulder tiredly. He looks relaxed unlike her, bare feet and not a tie in sight despite wearing what she knows must be his work clothing from the day. “Do you remember,” he asks quietly, long slim fingers running through the piano keys deftly, “when this became your song?”</p>
<p>She lets out a light laugh. “Of course. We were in the car, you, me, Robb, Bran, Uncle Rha and Aunt Lya. We were on the way to the beach and Uncle Rha was playing that godawful oldies station he loved to listen to.”</p>
<p>“You all but demanded we change the station until the chorus came on, if I remember correctly.”</p>
<p>“Can you blame me?” She laughs again. “I was five and all I wanted to do was dance. I could hardly hear past the ‘hold me closer Tiny Dancer’ bit,” she smiles fondly, getting lost in the memory as Jon’s hands make the music float all around her. She remembers demanding that Uncle Rhaegar play the song again and again once they got to the beach, and he’d obliged her tenfold. Jon, ever her partner, had begun dancing with her around the beach, belting the lyrics out all out of tune to serenade her. That had been a good day, and she’d never been able to listen to the song without an unbidden smile forming on her face, thinking of her Jon and the summer sun hot on both their skins as they splashed along the white sandy beach. And somewhere along the way, Jon had begun to treat her as his tiny dancer for true, naming her his “little prima” and always supporting her dream. Perhaps that is why his anger over Jaqen and the rest hurts so much, because she doesn’t know what it’s like to be on opposite sides of Jon, not when everything between them has always been as easy as breathing.</p>
<p>“You’re crying,” he says softly, hands leaving the piano in a flutter to wipe a tear away from her cheek. “Arya, what’s wrong?”</p>
<p>“I—Jaqen, he—“</p>
<p>“He what?” Jon’s face has clouded over in rage and desperately she thinks of Jaqen’s words from earlier that day. <em>Touch yourself, touch another—lose yourself in the darkest parts of your soul.</em> Her deepest desire is staring her right in the face, grey eyes angry but desperately trying to comfort her. How many times did she touch herself thinking of Jon, how many times did she imagine him beside her in Winterfell and Bravos? Ever since she knew what wanting was, she’s wanted Jon, and as she’s grown older, so has her wanting changed. But Jon is <em>everything</em>, how could he possibly want her?</p>
<p>“I don’t want to speak of him,” she swallows thickly, “practice is very hard is all and he’s given me a few days off to rest,” she answers, not completely lying. She cannot bear to tell him of Jeyne Poole and the rest though, not when he’s always insisted that Jeyne’s opinions didn’t matter. But they do, don’t they? She’ll be dancing the Swan Queen while Arya’s gone, and the thought alone is enough to make her blood boil.</p>
<p>Jon must see the anger dash across her face because he takes it into his handle gently. “A break is good my little prima. Will you spend it with me?” He hedges, shy in a way he has not been since they were children.</p>
<p>She nods her head silently, reaching up to cup one of his hands still on her face. It’s then that he sees the ring on her middle finger, gleaming in the light like a tiny ocean. Wordlessly, he takes that hand in both of his own, bringing it up to place a kiss onto the ring as he looks at her with eyes brewing like a storm. It’s too much—the way he looks at her, Jaqen’s words from before, her own desires, long buried now clawing to be let out. She would blame the wine if they’d even got a chance to open it, but no, it’s all her fault when she kisses him. She plants her lips on his fast, refusing to break away though she isn’t sure how to lead—Jaqen has always done that for her.</p>
<p>Jon has no problem taking over however, grasping at her neck, immobilizing her while he slants his lips back over her own. “Arya,” he breathes, kissing her again, “yes,” he groans. She isn’t sure what strange magic is making him receptive, but she thanks the gods for it, because she couldn’t bear to be faced with his rejection just now. That will come in the morning she knows, sweet and honeyed words that will tell her how perfect she is, but that she’ll only ever be his cousin. Jon can have his pick after all, why on earth should he choose her?</p>
<p>She doesn’t think about that now though, not when he takes a hand to slide first one and now the other strap of her dress down, burning her where his fingers touch. “Can I—can I?” She’s not sure if he even knows what he’s asking, but she will grant it, whatever Jon wants, he can have it from her.</p>
<p>“Yes,” she answers breathlessly, thinking that a kiss is supposed to be like <em>this</em>, not whatever the hell Jaqen has been doing. He grips her hips roughly, all but knocking the piano bench over as he rises from it, bringing her along with him to his bedroom. He lays her down on silken sheets that smell of lemongrass and lavender, cool to the touch but doing nothing to put out the fire Jon has started within her. She lays half on the bed, her feet still firmly planted on the ground as she props herself on her elbows to see him better. For a moment he says nothing, just takes in what she knows must be a disheveled state. She watches as he undresses himself, yanking the tail of his dress shirt from out of his pants, furiously undoing the buttons, his eyes lidded and his mouth swollen. Next comes his belt, the sound of it unbuckling making her wet with anticipation, and soon his pants and boxers follow in a heap on the floor. She takes in his form appreciatively, eager and yet afraid to know that Jon is so big. How on earth is that supposed to fit inside her?</p>
<p>“Arya,” he breathes again, palming himself once as if he cannot help it before dropping down to his knees in front of her. He hikes her dress up above her hips, a wicked smirk on his lips as he sees she isn’t wearing any underwear. He takes his warm hands and spreads her legs out slowly, giving her time to change her mind, as if she would, as if she <em>could</em>. For a beat, Jon just looks at her core and she knows he can even see how wet she is, the thought making her wetter still. He bends his head to give her a long lick with the flat of his tongue, and the sound that wrangles out of her is enough to make her cheeks blush bright. But Jon must like that sound, for her licks her again and again, vowing to get every moan out of her before the night is done.</p>
<p>She’s not sure how she lived without him feasting off of her like this, and she won’t think about she’s supposed to survive after this. Instead, she loses herself completely in the feeling of his tongue on her, lapping and sucking and devouring her all in one. Slowly, the pressure builds, the swell of her ballet music—gentle and rhythmic until all too soon she is at the peak, tumbling over in a melody of “Jon’s,” and “yes please,” and “don’t stop.” All the while her conductor leads her though it, bringing her back to reality with steady licks to her core until she must beg him to stop.</p>
<p>She sees the flash of a satisfied smirk as he brings his body on top of her own, his wet lips claiming her own again as he makes her taste herself and <em>gods</em>, is this how good it can be? She soon realizes that it can be better when he pulls her dress of completely, latching that divine tongue of his onto one of her breasts to suck at it like no tomorrow, the big head of his cock rubbing up against her sex in a deliciously agonizing pace. “Jon,” her voice is small but he lifts his head up to meet her, grey eyes blown with lust. “This is—I’ve never—“another blush crowds her cheeks and he smiles up at her from where he’s been torturing her breasts, his beard scraping over the sensitive nipples to make her cry out.</p>
<p>“I’ll be gentle, my little prima, I promise. I’d never hurt you,” he says, reaching up to kiss her fully on the lips again. She knows he’s doing his best to distract her, dragging his mouth to her neck, licking and sucking and biting. “You can bite me if you need to,” he whispers, “draw blood if you must, I don’t mind.” She nods to let him know she’s heard him, kissing his twice quickly where his pulse is throbbing as his head pushes in. She’s most likely lost her maidenhead to some horse saddle or another, but it still stings when Jon stretches her out and she does clamp down on his neck, but that only makes him release a breathy moan of his own. And feeling wicked, she bites again and again as he thrusts into her, marking him as he does to her like wolves do. He fucks into her past the point of sanity, hips snapping viscously until she can only her their lovemaking and the cries each of them emit, his pace becoming relentless as he jerks back shakily, releasing thick white lines of his cum all over her body. Dazed, she reaches out to touch it, swirling some of it around on her index finger before she plops it in her mouth curiously, sucking that little drop of him down.</p>
<p>“Don’t do that,” he groans, standing above her, “or I’ll never let you leave.” She giggles like a school girl, both at how flustered that has made him and how wicked she feels. He grins from ear to ear at her, pulling her up and under the covers, join her a beat later. He turns of the lights by his bedside, warm, strong arms coming to grip her as her pulls her back into his chest, one hand firmly on her breasts. Softly, he starts to sing her song, “blue jean baby, LA lady, seamstress for the band…” In their youth he had teased her about that line endlessly, for she’d never stitch anything if she could help it, her stitches always embarrassingly crooked. But somehow, that had only made the song sweeter, knowing that Jon had thought about every line of it, always picturing her when he did. She drifts off to the sound of his voice, sleepy and spent and just for her.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>She doesn’t have time to be shy in the morning, to blush and offer apologies and make promises that she won’t throw herself at him again. She barely gets the chance to wake up before sleepy hands wander down to her core again, slipping thick fingers into her until she cries out in ecstasy, pressing down firmly onto them as she rides off her high.</p>
<p>Then it’s a passionate shower as Jon helps her wash, ending in her gasping as she hopelessly clutches at the slick tile walls, him pounding ruthlessly into her from behind.</p>
<p>Breakfast goes well, orange juice and eggs and bacon and toast, both of them naked save for their robes. It ends better though, boldness making her tell Jon that what she really wants is to taste him again, pulling his chair out to drop onto her knees in front of him, learning to lick and suck his cock until she gets her reward, his hands a painful but exciting tangle in her hair.</p>
<p>She sleeps when he leaves for work, naked as her name day on the ruined sheets, but she barely gets any rest. Jon comes back for lunch, tugging his clothes off and dragging her on top of him, guiding her to lay on his chest as she moves on top of him, slow and steady until they both reach their peak.</p>
<p>She takes a bath when he leaves again, sure that she could not even do a glisser without feeling the ghost of him everywhere. She takes care though, to make herself look nice for him, sending down for a girl to bring her a red negligee from the shops below in the hotel. And when he comes back, to see her spread out on the bed and a dinner tray on the table, he does not hesitate to choose her over the tray.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>She’s spent three days with Jon by now, fucking and sucking until she has almost forgotten about the ballet and Jeyne and Jaqen. But a calendar reminder on her phone says she is supposed to be at the studio later this afternoon for the seamstress to do costume fittings. Rising slowly so as not to wake Jon, she looks out at the window. She looks out over the God’s Eye Lake, wondering if she would be so sore right now if Jaqen had not instructed her to touch herself and Jon. Had she used him? Is all of this just some ritual to make her performance better? Does Jon know that, is it why he has played along? Bitter tears sting her eyes because she knows it isn’t true for her. She has always loved Jon, and truth be told, Jaqen’s words were just an excuse to do what she’s always wanted to do—claim Jon, possess him and have him possess her in turn. She looks to the ring on her middle finger, wondering why exactly he gifted it to her.</p>
<p>“You know,” he says, coming up behind her on the balcony to slip a kiss onto her shoulder, “it’s supposed to go on your ring finger,” he looks at her hand as well.</p>
<p>“But—“ she frowns, leaning back to look at him.</p>
<p>“It’s an engagement ring after all,” he smiles at her, but she can see that it is nervous, unsure. After a pause, his eyes dim as he says, “but the middle finger will do for now, I suppose.”</p>
<p>“Jon,” she lets a little apprehension seep into her voice, “why would you give me an engagement ring?” She turns around fully to look at him, not wanting to miss any detail of his expression.</p>
<p>“Arya,” he sighs, “why do me give women engagement rings?”</p>
<p>Dumbfounded, she tries to come up with any possibility. “It’s a family heirloom,” she tries.</p>
<p>“Hardly an heirloom,” he snorts, “but I suppose by the time our granddaughter gets it, it’ll be worthy of the title.”</p>
<p>“You’ve never even said you liked me! I’ve never even said I liked you!”</p>
<p>“I think what we’ve been doing the past three days counts as a little more than ‘like’.”</p>
<p>“Ygritte—“</p>
<p>“Was a sweet girl, but she was never it for me. I tried to forget you, it’s true, but all she did was remind me that she wasn’t you, no matter how similar you two were.”</p>
<p>“Gendry—“</p>
<p>“Never crossed the line because he knew I’d have his thick fucking skull.”</p>
<p>“Jaqen—“</p>
<p>“Better not ever touch you again.”</p>
<p>“You—“</p>
<p>“Belong to you, just as you belong to me.”</p>
<p>“Jon!” tears spill down her face, how cruel he’s been, to torment her for all these years. “Jon you can’t love me, you can’t.”</p>
<p>“Can’t I?” He arches an eyebrow, and when he sees that she is still crying, brings her face into his hands, wiping away her tears with the pads of his thumbs. “I’m afraid I’ve loved you like this since you were thirteen. But gods, Arya, you were thirteen! And I was seventeen and—and—Ygritte, Gendry, Val—they were good people, they were, but my future is with you.”</p>
<p>“Wait, who the fuck is Val?” She asks, all anger despite his words.</p>
<p>“She’s not you,” he chuckles despite himself, even her punch to his arm not stopping the glee on his face. “And she’s not the one wearing my mother’s engagement ring, you are.” He kisses her forehead. “Look, Arya, I’m shit at using my words, at expressing myself. But how you could ever think I’ve not been completely in love with you this whole time is beyond me. There’s never been anything I wouldn’t do for you, never. And I well, I wanted to give you time.”</p>
<p>“I—“ her phone dings again as she processes all of this. “I have to go, I’m sorry.” She hates the look of confusion in his eyes and hates herself even more for being the one to put it there. She gives him one last searing kiss before slipping her three-day old dress back on and dashing out of the hotel.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Her fitting goes well despite how sore she is, every needle the seamstress plucks into her skin reminding her of the absolutely vulgar things she’s been doing with Jon.</p>
<p>“A girl looks…rested,” Jaqen studies her in the mirror as the seamstress does her work.</p>
<p>“A girl looks properly fucked you mean,” she snorts. And to hell with it! Jaqen, Jon—she isn’t going to bite her tongue anymore because apparently that has been holding her back tremendously. Gods how long could she have been with Jon if either one of them had just opened their mouths? The conversation she had with Bran comes back to her “it’s a bit boring you know” and fuck even the family is tired of their obliviousness.</p>
<p>Jaqen says nothing during her little inner monologue, only smiling at her in the mirror. “A girl is ready.”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Months have passed, the Faceless Men Studio of Theatre and Dance rising up day by day in the heart of River country. She hasn’t responded to any of Jon’s calls or texts only sending him a letter in the mail with a ticket to opening night and promise to talk after, somewhere along the way growing vindictive—he has made her wait years, she can make him wait a few months.</p>
<p>The elite of Westeros have bought out the bulk of the theatre’s high end boxes, most of the lesser noble houses buying season tickets to rent one lodge or another. The eight noble families have done the largest luxury boxes up in house splendor, golden lions and silver direwolves and black dragons adorning the mast of each so that everyone down below knows exactly who sits above them. Jaqen had been pleased when she’d made the suggestion for him to allow the families to do such a thing, guaranteeing that his halls would always be filled if he made the elite feel like it was a manner of house pride to be in attendance.</p>
<p>Arya stands on stage looking proudly out at the work of architectural genius, knowing full well that the theatre might be Jaqen’s but tonight the stage would be <em>hers</em>. On a whim she had invited Bellegere, insisting that her father leave a place for her beside Syrio in their family box. And it’s that lovely voice she hears now, coming up beside her. “I know that hair net,” it says, still sounding like bells in springtime, “I gave it to a pretty girl years ago who wanted to be a water dancer.”</p>
<p>“Bellegere,” Arya answers, turning around to see the now thirty-five-year-old woman in all her glory. Bellegere had caused a bit of splash with her departure from the Bravosi company a few years ago, leaving in a storm in the height of her career. According to rumor, she spends her days in Bravos in absolute comfort, dining on the rarest china, eating rich foods and laying down in expensive sheets with whoever she chooses. “I’m glad you could make it,” Arya gushes.</p>
<p>“I told you I would come, no?” She laughs, still that happy woman that Arya had met all those years ago.</p>
<p>“That you did, and I am glad you came.”</p>
<p>“Come,” Belle takes her hand, “let’s get you ready.” They walk to path to the dressing rooms, past the men and women clambering to see in the long mirrors of the community fitting rooms to get to the private chambers. They spot Edric in his room, laughing at someone behind the door, just out of sight. Belle takes Arya’s hand, guiding her to sit in the chair in front of the mirror. It’s a comfortable silence that stretches over them as Belle paints her face in white.</p>
<p>“What if I fail?” She asks in a voice so quiet she almost doesn’t hear herself.</p>
<p>“You won’t,” Belle says, “do you know why I left the stage?” Arya shakes her head no. “I let dancing become a job instead of my passion. It was always about getting this right or dancing that part or keeping my title. The day I looked at my slippers and dreaded putting them on, I quit. I didn’t even touch them again for two years, but now when I dance for myself or for my… <em>friends</em>…” she pauses to giggle, “I love it again. I’m perfect when I do it now, better than I ever was when I was obsessing over it. As long as you go out there and love what you do, you won’t fail, I promise. When you go onstage and lose yourself, that is more important than what any critique could say. Will you do that for me? Will you?”</p>
<p>“I will,” Arya vows, eyes meeting Belle’s in the mirror, a tenderness flaring through her in the moment. They say nothing else as they put her costume on, in fact, Arya thinks she does not speak again for the duration of the ballet.</p>
<p>She triumphs as Odette in Act II, Edric kissing her cheek and gushing once they have been rushed off the stage. “You were perfect,” he whispers into her hair as the other dancers clap and Jaqen gives her a satisfied nod. She never doubted she could be Odette though, so she remains silent and prepares to become Odile.</p>
<p>It’s when she’s back in her dressing room, frantically rummaging around in her bag for that black eyeliner she knows she packed that Jon’s ring tumbles out, clattering to the floor. She picks it up wordlessly, studying the depths of the blue sapphire until a knock on her door signals that she must be back to the stage in 5 minutes. She places Jon’s ring on her dressing table delicately, as if it might break.</p>
<p>From the moments the wrought iron gates open on stage, she thinks of nothing but Jon’s kisses. She does the moves of course, winding and gliding, her feet and hands a powerful, lithe combination of seduction and deception. But she doesn’t <em>feel</em> it. Every sauter and élancer is Jon’s body against hers, powerful and greedy as he consumed her, the way his mouth felt on every inch of her skin, the dominance she felt even when she was on her knees and he looked down on her—it all starts an unyielding fire in her belly until she can feel the brush of swan wings for true beneath her, her breath shuddering as she flutters off the stage in triumph.</p>
<p>She finds it almost hard to dance Odette again so soon afterward, still wrapped up in the promise of what will come later, when she is in Jon’s arms again. So she thinks of Jon as he was, not the seductive man who has possessed her body and spirit, but the boy who sang her favorite song and mussed her hair and practiced dance with her. It purifies the sensual thoughts from her mind, allowing a soft little smile to grace her features even up until she jumps into the lake.</p>
<p>The applause are deafening, shouts and praise that makes her ears ring when she bows over and over again, a triumphant smile fixed on her face. It stays there while she slips on a white gown of chiffon, applying her makeup and securing her hair in Belle’s net, slipping Jon’s ring onto her fourth finger so there can be no mistake. Cheers greet her once more as the glittering ballroom comes into view, the reception in full swing. She barely acknowledges them as she finds her family, red hair and brown coming into view until she finds Jon. A glass of whiskey dangles precariously from his hand, eyes apprehensive as her watches her come into view. “Arya, my little prima—“ she cuts him off with a kiss, reaching up on her toes to devour his mouth with her own. She relishes in the feel of his strong hands wrapping around her, gathering her closer to him while a different round of applause sounds behind them now. She says nothing as they break apart, only brings her left hand up to his face so that he might see her ring.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>It's almost my birthday, so here's a gift to you that's been sitting in my drafts for ages. I have to thank everyone on Tumblr for getting the idea stuck in my head that Arya would be a ballerina in today's world because I love it! So the story is a mix of the plot of Black Swan and how Jonrya would fit into that world, and I've always loved Tiny Dancer by Elton John and just think they would make this their song. And I wanted to incorporate some more elements from Arya's time in Bravos so I added the courtesans/HoBaW/Syrio.</p>
<p>This is the going to be the first part in a series of songs that make me think of Jonrya so I will be posting more (suggestion are always welcome!) just not on a time/schedule.</p>
<p>Hope you like it, feedback is always welcome-- I want my writing to improve so please let me know what works/what doesn't/things to consider/etc.</p>
<p>I apologize for any spelling/grammar mistakes!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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